


The Lonely Itch

by justakidfromhellskitchen



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: Dominance, Light BDSM, M/M, Sex Club, St. Andrew's Cross, Submission, no pain though
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-08
Updated: 2015-09-07
Packaged: 2018-04-19 16:30:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,162
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4753226
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/justakidfromhellskitchen/pseuds/justakidfromhellskitchen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The bane of Matt Murdock's world is his loneliness. He attempts to cure it in an unconventional way, and he ends up meeting an unlikely partner.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Lonely Itch

**Author's Note:**

  * For [DeathValleyQueen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DeathValleyQueen/gifts).



> This work begins right before season one and spans the whole season. Thank you for all of my beta readers who read, commented, and edited this chapter. <3 You are loved and cherished.

_It's in the eyes_  
_I can tell, you will always be danger  
_ _We had it tonight, why do you leave it open?_

June has just bled into July. Summer in Hell's Kitchen is Matt's favorite season. The droplets of water float in midair and adhere to his skin, to his cane, to his glasses. All smells and sounds slow to a single frame as if someone has pushed the pause button on life's remote control. There is a blanket of security in this timeless suspension, something reminiscent of his melancholy childhood -- a flickering intuition that perhaps that this lonely itch will be sated with sky's tears.

Tonight, Matt’s emotions are as muddled as the canopy of rain clouds watching over the city. He taps his cane on the uneven pavement as he rounds the corner to Club Diablo. A heavy wave of bass undulates inside, crashing into its walls, dribbling out of cracks and creases and pouring out of the entrance. Nausea grips Matt's stomach. Despite it, he plucks his wallet out of his coat pocket.

"Hi." Matt turns on his most charming smile, leaning against the protruding ledge separating the doorman from the outside world. "How much--?"

"Well if it ain't a Murdock boy!"

The voice grates against his ears but he tilts his head at it. Familiar ... yet Matt cannot pin it to a name, a scent, or any defining characteristic. "Do I ... know you?"

"Name's Johnny. I knew your dad, Battlin' Jack. Saw you once or twice when you was a wee lad, didn't I?"

"Ah." Matt offers a polite but curt smile.

"Didn't figure you were one of them queers," Johnny continues, clearly unaware of Matt's discomfort. "But he was a good devil, your old man. Sure, you look just like him. Shame he had to go the way he did."

"Yes..." Impatience taints Matt's consequent words. "How much is the cover charge?"

"It'll cost you a pretty Benjamin, that's all."

Matt is in the limbo of indecision when a low moan emerges from the lump in sky's throat. He grasps the crumpled hundred-dollar bill by the tail, wriggles it out of its comfortable hiding place and slides it to Johnny, the doorman. "What the hell," he mutters mostly to himself. "It's only tonight."

"Which color will it be, then?" Johnny asks, dragging Matt's left wrist towards himself to rasp a stamp on it. Matt contains a wince.

"Color?"

"Sure, you have never been here, have you? Nah, surely I would have recognized you before long. More's the pity. But not to worry, there's blue for dom, yellow for sub, red for pain--"

"Yellow," Matt slices off the man's rapid fire of words, adjusting his glasses on the bridge of his nose.

"You sure about that? You seem the type who prefers blood. Just have that look about you, don't you know."

Skin stretches tightly over Matt's knuckle as he grips his cane. "No. Just yellow.”

"Begging your pardon... Didn't mean to be rude, like. Only meaning to make conversation.”

Matt presents his other wrist, the paper bracelet branding him as it encircles his flesh. "Thanks."

The pair of bouncers part ways to allow Matt inside the nightclub. The tidal wave of overlapping noises, conflicting scents, and heated emotions threatens to sweep him back out onto the muggy street.

Voices knot into each other. Raw, primal cries for mercy. Abandoned grunts. Shrill laughter. Men on their knees. Women in leather. Others in between, seeking validation of their existence. But among all of this, Matt is not alone in carrying loneliness on his shoulders. There are those who have itched it so hard, the scars it has left behind have become permanent.

Matt takes a moment, rooting himself to the pulsating energy and becoming one with it. A meditative breath later, all sounds seem to flick off before sounding like a distance ocean, distorted into a meaningless wave of frequencies.

He beelines for the bar, head kept low. His ears latch onto the familiarity of rain pattering a musical number on the club's roof. Matt acquaints himself with a bar stool and nearly misses the bartender's question as the thunder cracks its whip.

“Sorry?” Matt stretches over the sticky bar, cupping his ear for the bartender. “Were you talking to me?”

“Sure was,” says the barkeep. "Can I get you anything?"

A few seats to the left, a man’s presence hums quietly, a mixture of coppery confidence and azure assurance. He reminds Matt of sunsets and finalities. He regards Matt closely, a self-destructive gravity reflecting in the burning slits of his narrowed eyes. A snake's eyes.

"Snake eyes," Matt murmurs.

"Come again?"

"I'll have a Snake Eyes shooter."

The bartender hovers around his domain as he obliges Matt's request, but Matt's attention has already rebounded to the stranger. He prefers his wine dry, Matt notes. But who orders wine at a club like this?

Despite his quirks, the man would be king if attention was the world's currency. There is a constant stream of mostly men and the occasional woman who crowd around him. Flirting, asking, even begging.

"I'm not interested," Snake Eyes continues saying with a predator's smile, venomous boredom paralyzing his words. Matt can almost taste the others' disappointments.

Then Matt finds his voice sprinting ahead of itself. "You could be a little nicer to the poor kids."

"Why?" Snake Eyes' head acquires a curious tip to it. "Rejection will do them good. They will … get used to the disappointment."

A laugh tumbles easily from Matt's lips. "So not too keen on being called daddy, then?"

"I have no desire to be a daddy, literally or figuratively. But that’s not the biggest reason why I turned all of them away."

"Oh? Were they not cute enough for you?"

Snake Eyes chews on a thought like a piece of gum. "They didn't know what they wanted. They desired punishment, sure, but they aren't aware of their own limits. They come here to experiment but get cold feet before the fun even begins. Or, on the contrary, they push themselves too far, and the results are ... unsatisfactory. The use of a safe word is also an apparent mystery to most." Snake Eyes pauses here with a sigh. "I will not be somebody's badly conducted experimentation. I would rather have someone who knows their own limits.”

"Mmm, your argument is sound." Matt waits the space of a breath before adding, "I can see why you are a dom."

"See, that’s funny seeing as you’re blind." Snake Eyes cannot help the pleased smile, obviously proud of his own discovery. "I would imagine that would make it difficult to find the right match here. How do you know a person is being honest about what’s on their wrist?”

"I'm good at spotting a lie." He tunes his ear towards the stranger's heart. Ba-dump, ba-dump, ba-dump. Matt casts his bait and listens. "You've got the blue wristband, I'm guessing?"

"I do."

A sturdy truth.

Matt flashes his own wrist. "Am I your type, then?"

Snake Eyes' attention rakes over Matt. "I think you very well may be," he assesses. "What do I call you?"

"Matt." The name lingers between them, clear as a ring of smoke, before fading into thin air. "And you are?"

"For tonight, you may call me Sir."

Heat rises and coils along Matt's spine, anchoring him to his stool. It takes him a few moments to note that the space between them has melted away and that Snake Eyes' elbow is now touching his. "What are you drinking?"

"Snake Eyes," Matt says with a smile, intoxicated on irony.

"Never heard of it."

"Just a shorthand for rye whiskey, tequila, and schnapps. It's a shooter."

"Would you like another?"

Matt runs a cursory finger over the rim of his barren shot glass. "I’m properly warmed up. I think I'll have a whiskey and coke instead."

"Very well."

Snake Eyes leans into him, shielding Matt from the rest of the club as he flags the bartender. There is something possessive about the gesture, but Matt does not mind. Secretly, he craves it. Snake Eyes smells of a winter sunset. There is a mask of an expensive cologne, but Matt seeks the base of his natural scent: charred wood and freshly fallen snow. The comfort it brings Matt is an odd juxtaposition to their surroundings and to the hot fists of summer pounding beyond the music.

When they are both back to nursing their drinks, Snake Eyes asks, "So tell me, Matt, what kind of things are you into?"

"My wristband doesn't give it away?"

"It isn’t descriptive enough. All it tells me is that you’re into submission but refuse to shed blood. That, in turn, fails to tell me what you actually like. Do you enjoy being tied down? Whipped? Spanked?"

Bluntness has been crafted masterfully into his words. Snake Eyes holds Matt under a piercing gaze. Another wave of heat swelters under Matt's skin, and he busies himself with his drink.

"I like being tied up," Matt confesses when he recovers, turning towards Snake Eyes once more. "Physical pain is doable but I rarely enjoy it. Restraint, though, so that I have no room to move, so that I’m helplessly at the mercy of my lover…" he swigs a breath, "yeah. I’m into that."

"I think I can work with that." The stranger's fingers toy with a wisp of Matt's hair, twirling the strands before tucking them behind an ear. Skin grazes against skin, cool against hot. Another whiff of winter clings to Snake Eyes’ coat sleeve. His words dance around Matt like a flurry of snowflakes. "I want to have you Matt. I want to take you up to the next floor and have you until you are begging me to let you finish. Does that sound good?”

Matt quivers from a sudden chill. "It sounds great."

"What's your safe word Matt?"

"Stick."

Confusion resonates in Snake Eyes’ voice. "Very well. May I take your hand?"

"You may."

They journey up the stairs together, and Snake Eyes murmurs a running commentary of the stairs, the low ceiling, the sharp corners. Guilt clouds Matt's thoughts for a moment as he thinks of Foggy who has always done the same for him. Foggy. What would Foggy say about Matt being at Club Diablo?

They step into a booth. It is a cramped space, maybe as spacious as his living room except for a St. Andrew’s cross bolted to the center. Snake Eyes slides the door shut behind them, and then only the bass of the music can be heard. Relief comes to Matt in the form of a few breaths.

Snake Eyes works in an efficient but patient fashion. He strips away Matt's worries along with his clothes. Matt lets him, soon finding himself being strapped to the X shaped cross, facing forward. Soft leather hugs his wrists and ankles. He is moored, secured, safe.

"What else do you like, Matt?" purrs Snake Eyes somewhere to his left. "Is there anything else I should know before we begin?"

Matt's belly clenches where Snake Eyes' hands dance along the taut muscles. Heat pools below Matt's navel, knocking his breath out of rhythm. “I like to wait for it.” Matt struggles to string the words together, remembering at the last second to append, “Sir.”

"Wait for what, exactly?"

"To come."

Honey laces Snake Eyes’ voice. "I can do that."

The bittersweet torture of touches begin, each more teasing than the next. Matt’s whole body snaps to attention, as if awoken from a deep slumber. Snake Eyes drags a hand from the inside of Matt's wrist to his forearm, to biceps, to tense shoulders. A new trail begins at his topmost rib and ends at a hipbone. Fingers carve a path into the muscles of Matt's belly, tracing the peaks and valleys. He repeatedly follows the roads he has created, coaxing small gasps from the fathoms of Matt's guts. Electricity thrums through Matt's nerves and hardens one particular spot.

Time stretches into eternity. Snake Eyes and his deft fingers discover the exact pattern of all of Matt's sensitive spots. A brush to the nape of the neck allows  warmth to hook his hardness and tug; flicks to his nipples result in a blanket of goosebumps along Matt's arms; an acknowledgement of his scars make his heart stutter its beats.

The stranger moves on to kisses. Lips nip at his flesh like pieces of smoldering coal, and his starving skin basks in the simplicity of touch. The light graze of teeth transmits a shock dancing down Matt's spine and quakes his belly.

At long last, the pressure eases as Snake Eyes finds Matt's length. Had he not been secured to the cross, Matt is certain his knees would buckle. Snake Eyes' grip is loose, and he lures all sensations to the surface of Matt's skin. The message is clear. This is only a taste of what may come, what could be -- a prelude to an elaborate concerto.

The rhythm fades, and Matt gasps in protest. He hears the rustling of crisp clothes, Snake Eyes presses against his back, and the sensation of something silky brushes up Matt's hardness and is wound into a tight knot. A disconnected part of Matt’s mind notes the quality of the necktie. Snake Eyes must be loaded to waste one on Matt.

Snake Eyes circles to the front of the cross. Matt’s breath is trapped inside his chest, but before he has the chance to make a noise, the warmth slickness of Snake Eyes' mouth is working its way up Matt's hard flesh.

"Fu-uck!" The word breaks in two, the first part guttural and the second ending in an off-key whine. Snake Eyes' tongue rivals his fingers and kisses for being the worst kind of tease. Matt grapples with his leather binds, hips lifting in hopes of more skin-to-skin contact. Snake Eyes holds Matt's hipbones down almost effortlessly, only his thumbs exerting any pressure.

Matt loses the threads of his thoughts. All self-discipline shatters, and there is only Snake Eyes, the winter of his breath, and the coal of his tongue. Strain builds again in Matt lower belly, the tide nearly sweeping him...

But the tug and pull of Snakes Eyes’ mouth melts away abruptly. Matt leans forward, listening. Snake Eyes’ heart is drumming against his chest as if to propel him forward into battle. He wants Matt. Just the intensity of his desire invites Matt over the edge.

The pattern of the game is soon clear. Snake Eyes will give and take away as he wishes. He reads Matt like an open book, slowly, as if sipping on the pleasure of denial. He knows when there is more adrenaline than blood rushing through Matt's veins, when he is close, and deprives Matt of an ending.

He draws Matt close to climax three, maybe four more times. When his tongue is replaced by fingers, Matt finds his own voice pleading. "Please… Sir, I can't ... anymore..."

"Of course you can," soothes Snake Eyes. His touch patters along the length of Matt's member like the footsteps of a graceful ballerina. “But…”

The ghost of touch vanishes. Snake Eyes shuffles behind Matt, barely out of reach. There is an obscene squirting noise, and Matt squints. What in the Devil’s name is Snake Eyes doing?

"But you have been patient, and patience is rewarded.” Snake Eyes’ spreads Matt’s legs with cold, slippery fingers. A shiver ripples down Matt's legs.

"Oh God.” Matt relaxes, allowing room for more lube-covered fingers to prepare him. Snake Eyes' obliges.

Matt’s pleas turn paper-thin. "Please... please."

Snake Eyes stills his movements. "Please what?"

"Please, Sir, I need it."

"Need what?"

Matt gnaws on the words. "You, Sir. I need you."

Silence is shredded by the club's music and the occasional grumbles of thunder.

"As you wish," say Snake Eyes, his words stretched as if he is balancing them on a rubber band, waiting for them to rebound and smash him in the face.

Despite this, his touches remain strong but gentle. Even as Snake Eyes tears into a condom wrapper with his teeth, impatience mounting, the consistent thrust of his fingers burrowing deeper inside Matt never lapses.

He eases himself inside Matt, filling the void of loneliness. The incessant itching ceases in a moment of impasse. Snake Eyes paces himself, truly a man in control, setting a slow but steady rhythm. Matt's throat has become a desert. Any noise he makes is as rough as sandpaper. But he no longer gives a damn.

Their unhurried mutual movement kindles a fire, its flames licking at them both. A single thought invades Matt's head: if he knew the stranger's name, it would be the prayer on his lips.

"Are you close?" The stranger caresses his ear with halting words. He does not stop moving against Matt.

"Yes, Sir," Matt pants, "God yes."

"What do you think?" Fingernails scratch at the back of Matt's neck. "Have I teased you enough?"

"Please... Yes, Sir."

"Good, I was hoping you would say that." Matt is gifted with a kiss to the curve of his ear.

Snake Eyes reaches to loosen the tie holding Matt's weeping length hostage. Matt gasps as a hand grasps him firmly. The cadence of Snakes' Eyes words are hurried, matching the impatience of his hips. "Will you come for me?"   

Matt requires no more incentive. Desire howls inside of him, flooding his senses and tearing out of his throat like a lone wolf's cry at the full moon. Snake Eyes grunts through gritted teeth, exiting out of Matt and spreading the warmth of his climax over Matt's backside.

Air presses to Matt's bare chest, damp and humid. The distinct melody of both their panting flows into a harmony.

Snake Eyes frees Matt from his restraints, and Matt feels like a puppet whose strings have just been cut loose. His limbs flop awkwardly. It isn't until Snake Eyes has cocooned Matt in a woolen blanket that Matt realizes he is shaking. Hard. "Thank you," he manages.

"Of course. Are you alright?"

"Mmm, very." A smile burrows itself at the corner of his mouth. "Maybe we could do that again sometime."

Frost settles on Snake Eyes' voice. "Maybe."

This exchange haunts Matt the rest of the night. He dresses himself in his rumpled suit, his old worries. Then they are both strangers to each other again. Maybe there is no need to end on such a sour note. Matt opens his mouth to ask the burning question, "What's your name?" Yet he knows he will not charm an answer from Snake Eyes.

Outside, the storm has reached its apex, now reflecting the growing sense of dread. A cab swerves in front of Matt, and Snake Eyes opens the door for him. Another suspended moment of hesitation. But it, too, passes. The door shuts after him, and Snake Eyes disappears in summer’s rage.


End file.
